


I can't tell that story, it's wildly inappropriate

by orphan_account



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling as many Castle Ficathon prompts as I can, inspired by: A series of drabbles that tries to cover every single prompt on this list of prompts.<br/>Each fill will be a one-shot, and unconnected to previous fills. Most will be longer than drabbles. I have no word count or prompt fill goals, just going to fill them as I find the time/feel inspired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fill #1: Undead Again Post-Ep

Prompt: Fic written around blue, and the letter L. 

(This is an experiment in style)

\--------------------------

She misses him; more than that, she misses them, misses who they were, and who they could be. How do you miss something you’ve never had? But she has dreamed of it, woken with salacious images in her mind and a throb between her legs. She has felt the need for him on lonely, cold nights alone in her apartment, and pictured him as she took care of it.

The radio makes her miss him more; it’s out to get her while she drives home, insisting on a string of love songs she can’t escape no matter how many times she punches the button for a new station. There is no joy through the airwaves tonight. Lost love; the unrequited kind; a life so seemingly empty without the one it craves. She slams a fist against the buttons, silencing the pained laments of Joni Mitchell, but the limpid lyrics of the foggy lullaby linger in her mind, the music playing to the rhythm of the windshield wipers as they struggle to keep up with the deluge outside.

She had stayed at the precinct, long after he had left; it’s late now, approaching midnight, the sky a steel blue. Zombies shuffle through her memory as she navigates the dark, wet, city streets, a case that seemed to heal them somewhat, but of what affliction she can only guess.

Languescence sets in, and the sound of bricks hitting concrete, the taste of dust on her tongue, tells her she is ready. She’s too tired to fight this anymore.

I don’t know why we’re broken, she tells him the moment he opens the door, but I just want to fix us.  
Her words are not poetic, not as well-crafted as his own will be.

She hadn’t phoned, had just taken a chance that at midnight he might still be up. Writing, perhaps, creating an apocalyptic tale inspired from the day’s events.

He opens the door wider, nods for her to enter, and only once he has led her into his study does he speak.

He speaks of her shooting, of the words he uttered, the ones he knows she remembers. He tells her about an interrogation he viewed from the observation room, how words spoken by her made him feel betrayed. He admits defeat.

He reminds her of her lies, and lays his heart bare, and she steps ever closer to him, bridging the distance, until he utters, I love you, Kate, and her hands frame his face, and her body almost touches his.

If only there were enough ways to say sorry that might make up for words spoken in recovery, so long ago now. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter, because all she can say is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Castle.

The tears fall from her eyes without her permission, leaving trails through her makeup, but her hands remain on his face, holding him to her, keeping him from walking away. He can’t leave her.

His hands move to hers, and he curls his fingers around her palms. He doesn’t pull her away, just holds her hands to his face, and tells her, I cut a deal.

She frowns, but holds his gaze. He speaks again, of files, and phone calls, and shadowy meetings in parking garages. Anger rises, and she tries to take a step back, but he holds her in place. She can’t walk away either.

I did it because I love you.

She shakes her head, again tries to break free. They both know if she really wanted to she would be out of his apartment by now, and he would be doubled over in agony.

I love you, Kate.

And through her anger, she understands.

Resigned, she hangs her head, and closes her eyes. His hands release hers, only to slide around her body, and bring them together until no space exists between them. They fit together; her cheek rests on his shoulder, her lips graze his neck, and he buries his nose into her hair, and they just breathe for a moment. Forgiveness is found in an embrace, and not in words.

What do you need? he asks her, his voice low, muffled by her hair.

She hears his words, pulls back, and whispers, You.

His lips descend on hers, warm and firm, and she sighs into his mouth through parted lips, and grips at his shirt. She lifts her gaze, and his cobalt eyes flare with need; she raises her leg, wraps it around his thigh, and brings him closer to her. Too long has she wanted this, perhaps since that first meeting, that promise of a debriefing, but she’ll never be the first to admit to that.

She leads him to his bedroom, clothes stripped along the way, but it is he who eases her down on the bed, and covers her body with his. Flesh against flesh, he begins a journey, presses kisses to her inner-thigh, flicks the tip of his tongue across the dampness of her satin underwear, explores her hips, her waist, her stomach with his lips alone, and then finds the pink puckered skin between her breasts. His thumbs slide across her nipples; her back arches, and she grips tightly at the cerulean comforter as he lavishes soothing kisses to the remains of the day he almost lost her. Lips find lips, fingers tangle in hair, and she won’t cry now, but the emotions radiating between them almost overwhelms her. He kisses her gently, slowly, taking his time to learn how her body responds. And between these moments, he murmurs his love. And between these moments, he eases her panties down.

And when he fills her, and looks down at her in wonder, she almost breathes the words back, but they’re lost to a sob, unable to articulate when it feels this good.

Eyes locked, she moves with him, slides her legs higher, crosses her ankles high against his lower-back, and they rock together.

Her hands find his face again, her lips meet his, and she breathes her orgasm into him.

He won’t tell this story, of the night they let go, how the intimacy almost brought him to tears, and how only when dawn cast orange hues into the room did they finally sleep. She won’t tell this story, of the night they healed, when lies were forgiven, and when trust was built up where a wall had once stood strong.


	2. Fill #2: Set Season 2

Prompt: [random list of 5 things that fic must include]:   
Torch, ladle, aeroplane, domestic rat, arrow.

Set: Early S2, between The Double Down and Inventing the Girl

\-----------------

The smell of winter was in the air; it had cooled quickly, and the arid taste of wood-burning fires scorched the tip of his tongue and only made him crave a warm, cozy setting more. He found no beauty in the reds and oranges that had diffused through the once so vibrant green leaves, and thought only of how they dried and crinkled and fell from the trees; the brittle crunch underfoot the only remains of a decayed summer. The almost skeletal trees sent a shiver through him, and he pressed his hands deeper in his coat pockets. Contrails in the patches of clear sky above reminded him it was unfathomably cold up there - and he felt no warmer.

"Catching flies, Castle?" Beckett sassed, her voice drawing him back.

He closed his mouth quickly, and shook his head; he met her eyes but didn't dare look down. "No, just thinking."

"You need your mouth open to do that?"

"Helps the steam escape."

Her lips parted, her eyebrows lifted, and she nodded just once, no comeback necessary. "Thoughts about the victim?"

"The weather, actually," he admitted.

Dryly, she replied, with just a hint of boredom, "Distracted, again. I should be less surprised." A tilt of her head, a slight swivel of her hips, she turned her back to him, and returned her attention to the body before them, prone on the damp dew-slicked, blood-stained grass. She crouched beside Lanie and conducted her own visual exam while the M.E filled her in.

He watched them for a moment, observed the interaction, and remembered the body as he had first laid eyes on it after approaching the scene; he listened as information was bounced back and forth between the detective and the M.E, storing it all away in his brain for later, but his eyes were soon focused once again in the trees above.

\----------

"Leaves are changing," he said, walking back towards Beckett's cruiser, his strides matching hers.

"Have been for a while," she reminded him. Eying him curiously, she asked, "You okay, Castle?"

"Hmmm?"

"You don't have to come to every crime scene, y’know." She glanced across the roof of the car, pausing before unlocking it, as she asked, "Death not interesting enough for you anymore?"

He lifted his head, met her eyes, and announced in a rueful voice, "Alexis turns sixteen tomorrow."

"Okay," Beckett replied slowly, forehead furrowed slightly from his words.

The car unlocked, and she left him standing out in the cold. He blinked, and then moved quickly to open the door, but the interior was no warmer than outside. "Just thinking about the passage of time a lot today," he told her while adjusting his seat belt, whether she cared for more information or not. Her puzzled expression lingered, so he added, "My little girl is growing up."

"Little girls have a habit of doing that."

"You could be more concerned for my state of mind."

Beckett raised her eyebrows. "I've been concerned for your state of mind since the day you sat opposite me in an interrogation room and asked for copies of the crime scene photos."

He lit up briefly at the memory. "You could have made Patterson very jealous that day."

Kate shrugged. "Not really on my bucket list."

"Ouch. I'm already down about getting old and then you bring that up."

"Oh, so that's the problem? Not the fact your six year old is suddenly sixteen?"

"Both. It's been a simultaneous event, Alexis growing up and my own journey towards death."

"That's almost depressing. Except I was just at the scene of a murder, so the dead guy in the grass kind of wins." His silence was enough to make her almost worry about him for a moment. "Wait, you're actually freaking out over this?”

He angled the rear-view mirror towards him and started to examine his hair. She angled it back and shot him a glare. "Don't mess with my mirrors, Castle."

Turning to her, he dipped his head and said, "it's thinning, isn't it."

"Your hair is fine, Castle."

He lifted his head. "Fine?” he asked in concern. “Thin?"

"I meant it's the same it's been since I met you," she growled. "Although I might have a few more grey hairs." She watched him run his hand through his hair one final time, and smiled when he checked his fingers for loose strands. "Alexis turns sixteen tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he confirmed sadly.

"Any plans for tonight?"

"Other than wallowing in self-pity? No."

“Good."

"Why?" he asked, his attention off his hair and now on her.

Checking her mirrors - and repositioning one slightly - Kate eased the Crown Vic into the busy Manhattan street, a dark spot in a sea of yellow taxi cabs, and replied, "Wait and see."

She dared to glance at him, long enough to see his features had lifted, to see the curious smile tugging at his lips and the light of intrigue in his eyes. “In the mean time, up for solving the case?”

“I’ve got a fifty that says it’s a mugging gone wrong.”

She let out a soft grunt of annoyance at the reminder of their last case.

\------------

Messy. The word dominated the day. The crime scene, the victim’s background, his liver…

By eight they had an ID, and too many unreliable witnesses with too many contrasting stories.

“People don’t care when the victim is homeless,” Beckett lamented, eyes blurring the green words on the dry-erase board until the letters, and numbers, and arrows, and circles became angry waves of nonsense. Recapping the pen, she let it drop into the tray, and turned to Castle. “Let’s call it a night.”

Leaning against her desk, lukewarm mug of coffee in his hands, he said, “When you asked if I had plans, I didn’t envision this.” He looked down in disgust at the liquid in the cup, and set it to the side.

“I was thinking more along the lines of buying you a drink at a little bar I know.”

He perked up immediately. “Lead the way.”

\----------

He followed her out of the warmth of the precinct and into a bleak, hazy city, tall buildings shrouded by the threat of winter. They dodged puddles, and strode along sidewalks that were black with autumn rain. What had fallen during the day had now subsided to just a light misting, barely dampening their hair and clothes.

“How far?” he asked.

But she had already stopped.

He moved to her side and cast his eyes up at the building before them, familiar to him, by name, reputation. “I thought this place was shut down for health violations.”

Beckett smiled. “In the Seventies,” she replied with a short huff of a laugh. “A pet rat, a few roaches, and a case of dysentery, all unrelated - or so the story goes.”

“Delightful.”

“Then it was torched in the early Eighties, and rebuilt soon after," she continued. "I’ve been coming here since I was--” Beckett frowned, and then shook her head, “well, much too young now that I think back. It’s my go-to place after a rough day.” Opening the door, she gestured for him to enter. “Trust me, you need this place tonight.”

It touched him, to be introduced to this small part of Kate Beckett’s world, so he stepped out of the cold, not knowing what to expect--

\-- and found himself surprised nonetheless.

It was small, but bright, with wood paneling and wallpaper. A decorative fireplace glowed orange in a corner, surrounded by well-worn leather chairs, but the real warmth came from the smiles and the greetings that surrounded them as they moved deeper into the establishment. Kate Beckett was much-loved here. Passing by, Beckett graced the bartender with a grin, and held up two fingers. Two of her usual, whatever that was. Another piece of the Beckett puzzle about to slot into place. It could have been his own birthday for the gifts she was giving him now. He allowed her to lead the way, to a small table at the back, almost hidden away.

“Not the kind of place I imagined you would frequent,” he admitted as they sat down.

“You expected a biker bar?” Before he could answer, she warned, “Don’t you dare say strip joint.”

His mouth dropped open.  
“Didn’t fill your quota of flies this morning, Castle?”

He closed his mouth quickly, and shook his head to clear it. “I wasn’t going to suggest either of those. But this place is just so--”

“English?”

“That's it exactly.” He took it all in, and then exclaimed, “The Punchbowl and Ladle!”

“The what now?”

“I was in Cornwall, in England, on a book tour, a few years back. We stopped at a little place, with a thatched roof, resident poodle, and the interior here reminds me of it: The Punchbowl and Ladle.”

“Katya.” The bartender smiled at Beckett as he placed a drink before her, and she avoided Castle's raised eyebrows at the name. “And for your friend,” he finished, resting a pint glass on a coaster in front of Castle.

Kate smiled warmly, and nodded. “Thank you, Jasper.”

He left them, and Castle turned to Kate in interest. “Explain to me why a man with a thick English accent just called you Katya.”

Swallowing a mouthful of the ale, and, in an accent not her own but one he had heard before, she said, “I was nineteen, planning a semester in Kiev, and my ID was fake.” In her normal voice, she added firmly, “and none of that information leaves your mouth, or ends up in a book, okay?”

It took self-control, more than he realized he was capable of, to not mention how sexy the accent was, or the fact he was remembering her scantily-clad, her red bra peeking through. Instead, he focused on what she had told him, and asked, “And he’s never questioned it?”

She hid a smile behind her pint glass, and said, “I fake American accent to fit in.” In a serious tone, in her own accent again, she added, “I don’t usually bring anyone here, Castle. This place is my solace.”

He wouldn’t ruin all she was giving him with his uncensored thoughts. “Thank you for bringing me here,” he said solemnly.

“Don’t expect it to be a habit; this is my place.”

No, he wouldn’t ruin this place for her. “I understand.”

\----------

He matched her speed, downing his ale in time with her, ready for a second round when she was. He filled her in on his plans for Alexis’ party, his eyes growing hazy; before his mood could shift, she reached across the table, and smoothed a wayward strand of his hair down. He watched her silently, and only once she pulled back, a sheepish smile playing on her lips, did he ask, “Thinning?”

“Not at all,” she promised.

“Good.”

She tucked her own hair behind her ears, fussed with it a little, only stopping when he reached over and smoothed a section between his fingers. “No greys,” he promised. Her eyes met his, and his hand stilled, the strands still caught between his fingers. Frozen, leaning slightly across the table, the sleeves of his shirt brushing the sticky surface, he held her gaze, almost choking on his own saliva when her eyes dipped to his lips.

Her eyes flicked back up to his, wider now, almost scared, but she didn’t pull back.

He had too.

This was her place.

He let the tresses slip from his fingers, and, with a sad smile playing on his lips, leaned back into his chair. “I should go,” he said, regret lacing his tone.

She nodded, but the disappointment that flashed through her eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Her chair squeaked against the wooden floor as she pushed it back to stand, and he slid out from his own chair, from where it had been wedged between the back wall and the table.

“I’ll catch a cab.”

“I’ll wait with you,” she told him.

“We could share?”

“I think I’m going to stay a little longer,” Beckett said softly. She walked ahead of him, getting to the bar first to settle the tab, before following Castle out. She wouldn’t be drinking any more tonight.

“Wish Alexis a happy birthday from me,” she told him.

He buttoned his coat, pulling it tighter against him to ward off the chill, but grateful the rain had stopped. “I will,” he promised. He turned to hail a cab, feeling lighter now, feeling like he could tackle the approaching new day with the same level of enthusiasm and joy as his daughter. “And thank you, again, for bringing me here.” He turned back to her as the cab pulled up, and smiled. “All your secrets are safe.”

He opened the cab door, but she stopped him before he could step away, and when he turned to question her she leaned in and brushed a ghost-like kiss to his cheek. Her eyes caught his as she pulled back, and she gave him a soft smile, before turning away, and striding quickly back into the safety of the bar.

And when he eased into the back of the cab, his cheek still tingling from where her lips had rested, he felt like a teenager again.


	3. Fill #3: Set Pre-series/Season 1

Prompt: Days of the week  
\----------

She entered the world on a Saturday.  
Her father joked she had come early, of course, because she was ready and no one could ever tell Kate Beckett what she could or could not do. A typical Saturday’s child, her father always told her. But some days, silently, she wondered why she couldn't have just waited one more day.  
Sunday’s child seemed to have it pretty damn good.

She lost her virginity on a Monday, younger than she should have been, in a place she should never have been. She expected she would feel different afterwards, but she felt only a tug of regret and an ache in her thighs. Later it turned to disgust, at herself for what she’d done, yet she still felt no different.

Maddie sat beside her on a Tuesday night, in a seedy tattoo studio, holding her hand. Because they were drunk, and the artist didn’t care as long as he was paid. The infection cost more to treat than the tattoo had to receive.

She crashed her new bike on a Wednesday, and saw the disapproval in her father’s eyes before he and her mom had even reached her hospital bed. Sixteen stitches and a sprained wrist. Her leather jacket was a write-off, her helmet busted, but her bike could be fixed, as she had been.  
She spent the Thursday cross-legged on the sidewalk outside the apartment building, a how-to library book on her lap, tools in her hands, ignoring the pull of the stitches as she focused on her task. She would fix her bike if it was the last thing she ever did. Her dad was the one who found her hours later, oil-stained and tired, who helped her to her feet, and wheeled her damaged bike to the shop. She thinks she might still be paying him back for that.

It was a Friday, when everyone else was at prom, that she found solace for the evening at a poetry slam. Rolling her eyes at the posters and buzz in her high school's corridors, she slipped away and surrounded herself with the free-thinkers, the poets, and the artists, never believing she would ever regret it.

Her world ended on a Saturday.  
The splintered remains of a loving home cut deeper than any pain she had ever known.  
The front door closed, the house was silent, and then she fell into her father’s arms - but even then she felt him start to drift away. She had never been graced with the luck of Sunday’s child, but the determination her early arrival had thrust upon her kept her going, and kept them both alive.

She met Castle on a Saturday.  
And her life began anew.


	4. Fill #4: Set Pre-series/Season 1

**Prompt: What if Beckett had been the arresting officer when Castle was caught stealing the police horse in the nude?**

* * *

She remembers him; how could she forget? Recollection had flared in his eyes at the book launch party, and she steels herself now before entering the interview room.

"Mister Castle, you've got quite a rap sheet for a best-selling author. Disorderly conduct, resisting arrest..."

"Boys will be boys," he says with a shrug and a wry smile. Looking up at her from where he sits, he says, "You missed the best one."

"None of these are anything to be proud of," she reminds him. She reads through, and her eyes widen, and anger flares, as she remembers. "Yet every time the charges were dropped." She sits, as unimpressed with his antics now as she was back then.

She gets him to focus, long enough to introduce him to the case, the victim. But the moment he mentions the size of his claims, she finds heat rising in her cheeks - and he notices.

"But you'd know that, wouldn't you?" He watches her for a moment, and she feels like she's the one being questioned, before he adds, "Officer Beckett, wasn't it?"

* * *

Rookie hazing, that's what this was. "C'mon, Royce, you're just messing with me right?"

"Sorry, kid, but this one is all yours." He gestured for her to step forward. "Make me proud."

Setting her lips in a tight, straight line, she asked, "Know anything about horses?"

"No," Royce told her, but damn if he didn't sound like he was enjoying this.

"Fantastic," she muttered.

She took in the scene before her: the police horse she had to wrangle, the naked man on its back she had to arrest - who looked suspiciously like an author she read- and the growing crowd of on-lookers.

He had fine control of the animal, she had to admit, keeping it as a slow, steady walk through the park. She moved up alongside the large thoroughbred, her badge in her hand; she looked up, and ordered, "NYPD. Stop the horse."

The man turned, and looked down at her, and she sighed. Dammit, it actually was Richard Castle. He eased the animal to a stop, and grinned. "Caught me."

She closed her fingers around the reins as they dangled loosely, and tugged them out of his grasp. "You're under arrest for theft of police property," she announced. "Dismount."

"I was just borrowing him, I swear," he told her, grasping the pommel, before sliding his feet from the stirrups, and swinging a leg over.

She kept her eyes fixed solely on his face while he got down, but they drifted just enough to allow her to cop an eyeful of his anatomy as he swung his leg over the horse's rump, and she suppressed the impressed smirk, schooled her features, and looked him square in the eyes.

"Other people have to ride on that saddle," she reminded him once his bare feet were on the ground.

He stood before her, and only grinned at her in response, and as he exhaled she smelled the alcohol on his breath. Brilliant. Her eyes, her traitorous eyes, wanted that eyeful again, wanted to dip slightly and sneak a quick peek. But she kept her ice-cold exterior, stayed in control, held up her cuffs and fixed him with a hard glare. "Turn around," she ordered firmly. "Hands behind your back." As he did what she requested, she asked, "Any ID?"

"In my pants."

She snapped the cuffs on his wrists, and rolled her eyes as he make a sound of enjoyment. "Of course it is"

"Name?"

"Richard Castle," he told her proudly. "And you are? Officer?"

He already knew her first name, but if he remembered he didn't make it known. Just two weeks prior she had stood in front of him, handed over a book, and told him her first name. She didn't know what pissed her off more: that she had even wasted her time, or that he didn't remember her now. She turned him back around, holding his eyes fiercely with her own, one hand still holding the reins, the other wrapped around his elbow, her hold on the horse much kinder than the one on him. "Beckett"

"You have gorgeous eyes, Beckett," he announced, leaning in and breathing vodka fumes on her face.

Two weeks ago she would have been flattered; she scrunched up her nose a little, and reminded him, "You're under arrest, Mister Castle-"

"It won't hold," he interrupted her.

"We'll see about that." She tugged him towards a grinning Royce, shaking her head at him, silently warning him not to say a word.

"Where are your pants?" she asked Castle.

"About five blocks that way," the writer said, gesturing behind them.

"Can we book him without them?" she asked Royce.

"Oooh," Castle replied. "Like what you see, Beckett?"

"No, just want to get this over with quickly," she growled.

"Sorry, kid," Royce told her. "Better pick up his clothes too."

"You new at this?" Castle asked her, ducking his head as she shoved him into the back of the police car.

"Shut up." She slammed the door, and turned to Royce. "And the horse?"

He pointed behind her, and she turned to find an officer walking towards them. "Reunited, and no longer our problem."

She handed the reins over, and then slid into the front of the car. Without turning, she waited for Royce to start the engine, and asked the man behind her, "Alright, address for your pants?"

* * *

"It's Detective Beckett now," she reminds him, brushing the memories from her mind, focusing on the Tisdale case, and on getting this man out of her hair as quickly as possible. She pushes a crime scene photo towards him, of the body, and waits for his reaction.

"Flowers for your Grave," he murmurs, surprised by what he sees.

"And this is how we found Marvin Fisk," she tells him.

"Right out of Hell Hath no Fury."

"Looks like I have a fan."

"Yeah, a really deranged fan."

"Oh, you don't look deranged to me," he says smoothly.

She blinks in surprise. "What?"

"Tell me, Detective, did you know who I was when you asked me to slide off the back of that police horse, or did you run out the next day and devour my novels?" She opens her mouth to defend herself, but he continues, "Hell Hath no Fury? Angry Wiccans out for blood? Come on, only hard-core Castle groupies read that one. So which was it, Detective?"

She narrows her eyes, shakes her head at him, and continues asking him about the case, desperate to once again get it over with. She'd put up with crap from her fellow officers for weeks after news of the naked horseback arrest got around. The sooner she got him out of here, the less flak she'd take from those who remember that incident. "Do any of these groupies ever write you letters?" But her voice falters, she can't meet his eyes, and dammit he knows he's winning this.

There are hints of champagne on his breath while he speaks, and it keeps sparking images of him, naked -

"Do you know you have gorgeous eyes?"

She snaps back, and scowls. Yeah, he might have mentioned that once before. She wraps it up quickly, puts distance between them, and stalks off.

She might be a little bit flattered, if she wasn't still pissed off with him for being her first arrest.


	5. Fill #5: Post-Boom

**Prompt:** _**After "Boom", Beckett stays with the Castle family a little longer.** _

**(POV changes in here that hopefully aren't too jarring.)**

**Fic picks up about a week into Beckett's stay at the loft. Post-ep for Boom.**

* * *

_The morning after_

"Dad?" Alexis stops outside the empty guest room on her way down to breakfast, the bed made-up, all signs of its previous occupant gone, and frowns up at her father. "Where's Detective Beckett?"

Castle glances into the room, regret swirling in the dark pit of his stomach, his heart a little heavier. "She mentioned having found a place," he lies.

"A new apartment?" Alexis asks. She falls into step beside her father as he begins to walk towards the stairs at the end of the hall.

"I'm not sure, sweetie, but she has a place to live."

"I thought she'd say goodbye," Alexis tells him, a hint of sadness in her tone.

"I'm sure she'll stop by after work," he lies again.

Truth is, he doesn't expect she will. Isn't even sure if he's welcome at the precinct today. He's staying away, he'll get some writing down, channel all his stupid behavior, and her frustrating responses, into Nikki and Rook. Between the two of them they've done a fantastic job of royally fucking everything up; she almost died a week ago, but now it feels like he's lost her for good.

* * *

_Previous evening_

Case closed, Beckett sits on the couch, bare feet curled up under her, hot chocolate cradled between her palms, her hair, still damp from the shower, loose and drying in the warm room.

Each night spent in this loft has relaxed her a little more; her apartment was reduced to ashes, her life under threat, yet coming back - home - to Castle's loft every evening has been like a warm security blanket wrapping snugly around her. Each evening here has left her feeling more welcome, more comfortable; each evening spent with this family has brought her even closer to them.

But she needs something to pull her back, to tug her out of it. It's time to find her own place, even though her own is still smoldering in her mind. She had only ever intended to spend a night; Castle had insisted she stay the week. Now, here she is, getting entirely too used to spending her evenings eating dinner with this family. Entirely too used to Castle's warm, comforting presence, sitting beside him on the couch, their new evening ritual, hot chocolate and conversation.

"Tonight we break out the good stuff," Castle announces, pushing himself off the couch, and moving into the kitchen.

She looks up and smiles at his retreating form. "Oh? And what's that?"

She expects wine. She doesn't expect him to hold up a jar of-.

"Nutella?"

"You haven't had hot chocolate until you've had it made this way."

"Might be too indulgent," she says, a small smile playing on her lips.

"No such thing," he tells her. "But, if it is, after the last few days? You deserve it."

He mixes two mugs, and then carries them over to the couch. He places his own on the coffee table, and swaps her regular drink for the new one, before sitting down next to her. He doesn't even try to keep space between them, just plops himself down at her side, his arm brushing hers. She has noticed that too, these past few nights here, inch by inch, the space between them has lessened. Until now, now he's pressed up against her like this is what they do.

She doesn't shift away, she allows herself to be pressed against his side, but she does raise an eyebrow, to show she has noticed. When she turns to him, there's a far-away look in his eyes, a haze of sadness. "Oh, don't tell me, you're missing Jordan's smartboard already?"

He turns to her then, a small smirk lifting his features. "She left, and it felt like we lost twenty years. It's like the stone age back there," he laments.

She resists the urge to elbow him for that. "You managed before," she reminds him.

"Yeah well I didn't know what I was missing."

She smiles around the rim of her hot chocolate as she sips it. Now that she's experienced the indulgence of nutella in her mug she may never be able to switch back. So she understands - kind of.

"Like your drink," he begins, and she swallows quickly and turns to him, momentarily surprised. "Now you've had nutella, try and tell me you'll be able to go back to regular."

"Uh," she hesitates, still taken back by his uncanny ability to get inside her head. "I'll be able to go back," she lies. She has to be able to go back, because soon - maybe tomorrow - she'll have to find somewhere else to live. And it will be like her regular hot chocolate compared to the indulgent nutella of the loft.

"What if you didn't have to?"

She swallows thickly, and then freezes, unable to respond when she has no idea what they're even talking about anymore.

"Just pick up some nutella on your way to work tomorrow, and then you can have it whenever you want," he continues.

He's talking about such innocent things, and she's quietly, but frantically, unraveling inside. "Yeah," she manages to agree, around a constricted throat and dry lips.

She is definitely, absolutely, losing her mind - but all she can think is how easy it could be to take the next step with him, and how damn good he looks in the dark blue shirt, how it brings out his eyes, how the smooth, thin material wraps around his biceps, how good he'd look out of it.

Her control, inhibitions, mind - evening by evening she's losing them all.

Placing her mug on the table, she almost almost spills it in her haste. She steadies it and stands. "I'm gonna head up to bed," she tells him. "Night, Castle."

"Yeah," he replies, his tone holding traces of confusion from her sudden escape. "Night."

* * *

He follows her up the stairs a few minutes later, just to check that she's okay. It's been a rough few days, but she's not usually quite that skittish in his presence. The guestroom door at the end of the hall is ajar, and he steps over to it. It's open enough that the light from the hall diffuses in and casts a trail of light to the foot of the bed. He stops in his tracks, hand poised to knock now suspended in midair. Her back is to him, the light illuminating her, from her heels, up her calves, the back of her thighs, the smooth red satin of her underwear, the creamy pale contrast of her back, the curve of her spine as she bends to place her shirt on the bed. He can't not look, can't help but take it all in, having had a quick glance at her body while he had rescued her from her burning apartment he can't stop himself staring now.

He shifts his weight, his clothing rustles, and she freezes. She straightens, and turns to face him, her lips parted in surprise.

"Castle," she breathes out, before folding her hands across her chest.

But he can still see the dark red of her bra, the pale mounds as her arms push her breasts out, can see everything she is trying to hide from him. He needs to raise his eyes, but he's transfixed.

She isn't moving to close the door, is barely even breathing. He lifts his eyes, pushes the door open a little more, and watches her reaction. She holds his eyes, swallows thickly, and gives him the tiniest of nods.

He steps into the room, quietly easing the door closed behind him. The room remains softly lit, light filtering in through the window, streetlights, the glow of the city, removing the blackness of night from inside. She watches him, her eyes never shifting from his, wide and hesitant, yet gleaming with need. His hands find her warm waist, settle at her hips, his fingers follow her curves, the soft flesh that covers the hard jut of bones beneath. She's all contrasts, all contradictions and conflicts.

But she never says no.

She lets him bring her body to his, the tips of his fingers settling on the thin satin of her underwear, his lips finding hers. Her eyes flutter closed, and he feels her entire body relax into his, her own hands moving to hook her fingers into his belt loops and keep him close.

It's brave, and stupid, and he knows it will end in pain, but he dips his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, feels her intake of breath against his lips as he slides ever lower and sweeps two fingers down through her folds. He does it without hesitation, knowing if he falters she will shy away. She feeds off his confidence, her leg curls around his calf, and she bucks against his hand, applying extra pressure to the fingers currently swirling around her clit, skimming down to gather moisture, and sliding inside her. The little gasps, soft sobs of pleasure, force her lips to slip from his, and she breathes against his skin, sharp and jagged intakes of air, hot, damp exhalations.

He can't even be sure this is really happening. They were downstairs, sipping hot chocolate, and now he has her warm body flush against his, and his fingers deep inside her, easing in and out while his thumb works her clit, and he can already feel her begin to unravel.

She's falling apart in his arms, so quietly. Everything is a mere whisper. Undoing his pants, sliding them down, freeing him from his boxers, wrapping her fingers around his hard cock, all with barely a sound. Just the soft rustle of clothing, and gasps that could be imagined. She pulls back before she peaks, every nerve ending surely tingling, and kicks her underwear down her long legs. She pushes him to the floor, on his back, and straddles his hips, a gentle palm caressing his erection as she guides him to her entrance, and slides down. She meets his eyes, just briefly, before grasping his thighs behind her, and leaning back, her breasts straining against her bra as her body curves. On her knees, she rocks her hips, lifts herself, and clenches her muscles around him.

The visual alone is enough to undo him, combined with the feeling of being sheathed within her, the silky feel of her moving around him, the tight control of her muscles, and he isn't even moving. He can't. He can't thrust up into her, the noise on the floorboards too much when his family is sleeping nearby. He has to leave it all up to her, and damn if it isn't doing it for both of them.

His fingers run down her stomach, and she shudders under his touch. He keeps moving, eliciting soft sighs and gasps as he trails lower, and aids her in her release with two skilled fingertips against her clit. Her body tightens around him, above him, and then she lets go, shudders of release running through her, into him.

Boneless, she eases forward, and shifts. He slips out from inside her, still hard, his own climax denied. But she's not finished. She moves up next to him on the floor, stretching out her muscles as she does so, and presses her flesh to his. Her lips cover his mouth, her fingers wrap around his hard shaft, and she coaxes him to orgasm with an expert touch. He comes hard, gasping into her mouth, milky fluid coating his stomach.

She squeezes him gently, sucks his lower lip between her teeth, and then pushes away from him. Wrapping a sheet around her body, she darts quietly into the shared bathroom, and returns a moment later with a damp washcloth in her hands. She slides back to her knees, sheet hanging off her shoulders, and quietly cleans his skin of the evidence of their joining. He just watches, silent; with the desperate need now subdued, the warmth of love starts to fill him. She moves with slow, gentle strokes across his abdomen, and he realizes then, for the first time, that it _is_ love he feels for her. He loves her. And it kills him. Because despite her careful, soothing hand, he can't bring himself to believe it could ever be returned.

She helps him to his feet, stands before him, eyes locked on his, and the sad smile playing on her lips tears him apart.

_We shouldn't have done that._

"Castle-" she begins, regret in her tone.

He covers her lips with his own, stealing the words he can't bear to hear right now. He pulls back, tugs his jeans back on while her silent eyes watch him, collects his shirt, and gives her a small nod. "We'll talk tomorrow." He hopes the smile he gives her is reassuring.

Her lips part, before closing again, any words she was about to speak held back. She simply nods, and he leaves her in her silent room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

_The evening after_

There's a soft knock at the door at ten in the evening. He doesn't check, just opens the door, and cocks his head slightly to one side.

"You didn't come in today," she says, standing in the hall, keeping distance between them.

"Didn't think I was welcome," he admits.

Beckett sighs. "It shouldn't have happened, Castle."

"But it did."

"Yeah," she breathes out. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, before saying gently, "I'm sorry I left."

"You needed space."

"I needed time," she corrects.

"Had enough of both?" There's no anger in his tone.

"It shouldn't have happened."

"But it did," he repeats. There's a danger of this going around in circles, but she's not denying it happened, and that gives him hope.

"It did," she agrees.

He opens the door wider. "Come in, Kate."

She watches him in silence for a moment, shifts her weight and holds his gaze. But then she blinks rapidly, ducks her head, and steps into the loft.

"The timing," she begins, stopping as soon as she enters his home, and turning to him.

"It wasn't ideal," he finishes.

"No." She shakes her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. "No, it wasn't." She folds her arms across her chest, shields herself.

"I want more than last night," he admits carefully, keeping his voice low, his eyes soft.

"I do too," she responds quietly.

But then she's holding his eyes again, and he sees it all in them, everything she's about to say, and steels himself. "But?" he asks.

"Just, not right now. I want- I think we could try- I need more time." At his pained expression, she says quickly, "Not space, Castle. Just time. A little more, to find a new place, something permanent, and put my life back together."

"Not space?" he confirms gently.

She shakes her head and gives him the beginnings of a real smile. "No. I like having you around."

He gestures for her to step forward, and then wraps his arms around her, bringing her body to his until she rests her head against his shoulder, and breathes out. He wonders if she's been holding that breath all day - like he's sure he has been.

"And until then?" he asks. He has her wrapped up in his arms for the first time in their relationship, and now that the lines are redrawn he has no idea what he can and can't do.

She pulls back slightly, and captures his lips in a brief, sweet kiss that offers both an apology and forgiveness. "Until then you're my best friend, and my partner, and we'll figure the rest out in time?"

"In time," he agrees. "But not too much, right?"

She laughs softly and drops her head back against his shoulder. "No," she promises. "Not too much."

"Where are you staying tonight, Kate?"

"I don't know," she admits.

"Stay here." He says the two words so softly he's not sure she heard him, but then he feels the curve of her lips through his shirt as she smiles, and he knows they're going to be okay.


	6. Fill #6: Body swap

**_Prompt: Castle and Beckett wake up in each other's body_ **   
**Takes place pre-Josh, early S3**

* * *

Kate stretched as she drifted back to consciousness, and as the haze of sleep cleared she knew something wasn't right. Everything felt _different_. The mattress beneath her, her entire body, the stubble on her face.

Wait. What?

She scratched her palms over her jaw once more - her decidedly different jaw - and froze, her hands pressed to the coarse, uneven surface that had earlier been her smooth skin.

It was still night, still hours until dawn, but even in the dark room she could see the truth. With the blankets pushed back, body exposed, she could see it _all_.

And what she could see most certainly did not belong to her.

And why the hell was she naked anyway?

Fear and disbelief bubbling up through her; she scrambled out of bed, kicking the sheets away as they tangled around her legs and threatened to trip her.

Light? Light, light, light? Where the hell was the damn switch?

Her fingers found it, flicked it - and she stood there, wrapped in the glow of the soft bedside lamp, her eyes running up and down her body, her brain trying to make sense of what she saw.

Looking up, she took in her surroundings, and groaned. She knew this room. She'd only ever seen it from the office beyond the door, but she knew it.

First thought: _Goddamn Castle._

Second: _What the hell?_

Third: _Mirror!_

She spun around, with less grace than she was used to, and spied the en suite door. Throwing herself forward with big, heavy steps, she pushed on the door, hit the light with a large hand, and inhaled sharply.

Reflected in the mirror was a very naked, very shocked looking, Richard Castle.

She touched her face, and the man looking back at her copied. She turned, tilted her head, prodded gently at her cheeks, and every action was reflected back at her.

"The hell?" she whispered - and promptly shut her mouth, pressed her lips tight together. The voice that had greeted her ears wasn't her own.

She took a moment, before truly panicking, and let her eyes shift a little lower. Down, down, down, his chest, his stomach, lower still. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened.

_Damn._

_Impressive._

Almost choking on her own saliva, she closed her eyes, and turned the light off. She stood in the dark, fingers clenched around the towel rail, eyes closed so tight she was seeing stars.

_No. No, no, no, no, no._

She backed out of the room, hitting a hip sharply against the side of the door as she stumbled out. Hissing at the pain, she turned into the room, rushed over to turn off the bedside lamp, and then collapsed back on the bed, wrapping the sheets around her, hiding from it all.

It wasn't real. It wasn't possible. They'd been drinking last night, sure, but now she was beginning to question exactly what he'd been topping her glass up with. Christ, what a nightmare.

And it was. It had to be.

Beneath the sheets, hip throbbing, she willed herself to wake up, desperate to end this horrific dream.

* * *

Beckett sat behind her desk, downing her second coffee, still trying to shake the remnants of the dream. She had awoken to her alarm, in her own room, in her own body, slightly hungover - with a slickness between her legs she refused to think about. She didn't want to focus on the dream, but her traitorous brain kept flashing images of naked Castle through her mind, endless, delicious images on a glorious loop. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth, and let the loop run again.

"Morning, Beckett," Castle's voice greeted her, and she sat up straighter, put a stop to the loop, and hoped like hell the warmth spreading through her body wasn't evident on her skin.

She cleared her throat, and graced him with a smile. "Morning." She frowned as he eased himself into his chair, his movements stilted. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He shuffled a little to get comfortable, and grimaced. "Woke up with a sore hip," he admitted. "Must have had more to drink last night than I'd realized if I can't remember hurting it."

Beckett blinked rapidly to clear her head. "Sorry? What?" she asked in surprise. "You hurt your hip?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, did you see it happen?"

She swallowed hastily, and then shook her head. Coincidence. Yes. "No."

"Speaking of alcohol-induced weirdness, I had the strangest dream last night," he began, his features brightening at the memory.

She took a sip of her coffee, and raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

"Woke up in your body," he announced. Leaning in a little closer, he murmured, "Which is smoking, by the way."

Beckett spat the mouthful of coffee across the desk, and gaped at him. "You- I- What- Castle!"

He leaned back in his chair, smirking at her response, his eyes shifting between hers and the dark droplets now staining the papers on her desk. "Don't worry," he began, still smirking, way too proud of himself, "I kept my hands to myself."

Before she could respond, he added, "Your hands, however…" With a sparkle in his eyes he stood, and limped off towards the break room.

She watched him go, lips parted in shock, still trying to process everything. Coincidence, coincidence, coincidence - except, what if…?

Shaking her head, she downed the last of the coffee, fished a napkin from a desk drawer, and threw it down on the stained paperwork.

She was never drinking again.


	7. Fill #7: Season 7 speculation

Inspired by a prompt by the lovely lv2bnsb, and also a response to the ficathon prompt: **The immediate aftermath of the Season Finale/Season 7 speculation** (this is about as immediate as I'm willing to tackle right now).

* * *

Two weeks of silence has filled their bedroom; two weeks of an empty, cold space beside her when she tries to sleep has haunted her.

Sleep has been fleeting.

Tonight it refuses to come.

Eleven. Twelve. One. The hours pass before her eyes, until she can take it no more and turns onto her other side, her back to the clock. It's digital, but she swears she can still hear the seconds ticking by.

She's wired; today was another long day, with no leads, of feeling so close to finding him, but then denied - again. Another location, another empty room, signs he was there, but then moved - again. She's running on empty now, feels the last of her resolve slipping, her exhaustion is almost too much to bear - and yet she cannot sleep. Her mind won't turn off, she _can't_ turn it off. She needs him, misses him, fears for him. She's starting to question if she can even do this without him.

She wonders if she were the one missing would he have found her by now? She's starting to doubt herself, starting to lose faith in her skills. A detective who can't find her own fiancé. What a waste she is turning out to be.

The longer she is awake, the more her mind turns against her.

With a heavy sigh, she curls up, almost into herself, and presses her palm down, lets her hand warm the space he once filled at night - _will fill again_ , she reminds herself.

Despite her efforts, it's too cold. The tips of her fingers sweep across the sheet beside her, draw an outline of his form, until her palm comes to rest above where his heart would be.

She needs him home, needs him safe, needs to wrap her arms around him and lay her head on his chest until the sound of his heartbeat lulls her to sleep. She needs to sleep, needs more than a mere hour or two of broken dreams. She curls around his pillow, breathes in the fading scent of him, and begs to be swathed in the bliss of oblivion that only sleep can bring.

* * *

She awakes slowly, no alarm pulling her forcefully back to consciousness, no phone calls, no texts, no sounds at all. And, for a second, she feels at peace, for a second everything is as it should be - and then the hazy remnants of sleep lift. She remembers, why she is alone, why the space beside her is untouched, why her heart aches.

He was _just_ with her; the dream is already forgotten, but there are images of him too recent to be real.

She's still clasping the pillow against her, still has her nose pressed against it, and the smell of him brings the dream back. Scenes of him beneath her, her legs straddling his hips, his hands clasped with hers, his voice coaxing her to let go. Scenes of him behind her, draped across her back, thrusting and filling her. She's removed from the two bodies on the bed, watching their positions shift, present but not included. Standing back, she's watching them make love, bathed in candlelight, and she's crying - because the person he's making love to is empty, because she can't feel him anymore. He's there - but _she's_ gone.

The images of them together sparks a need dampened since she lost him. With a hesitant hand, she slides the sheet down, rolls onto her back, bites her lower lip, and lets her legs shift slowly apart. Eyes closed, she sees him, above her, the tips of his fingers grazing her skin, exploring each shift in texture and shape as he trails down her body.

Her legs drift further apart, and he teases her through her panties, the slightly coarse material grazing the sensitive bunch of nerves, sliding more freely the more aroused she becomes. For a moment she's lost in the belief it's him. For a moment the ache in her heart eases, the burn of arousal heats her, melts the ripped edges of her broken heart, and melds it back together. For a moment she is no longer bleeding; for a moment she is merely scarred.

For a moment her heart beats again.

Her hands still, rest motionless between her legs, and she can't do this. Dragging both hands off her panties, she presses her palms tight against her eyes; her hands slide down her face, until they cover her mouth and muffle her whispered, "I miss you, babe."

The desperation in her voice can't be hushed, the sound cuts through her, and her broken intake of breath only breaks her heart once more. She curls back onto her side, tears streaming down her cheeks, emitting soft, jagged sobs, sounds that are almost deafening in the silence of the bedroom.

Staring at the dark, empty space beside her, she knows the hours will drift by frustratingly slow. She hauls her exhausted body out of the bed, and lets the shower water mingle with her tears. She stays under the hot spray until all traces of her pain have been washed from her skin.

It's three in the morning, but she's doing him no good here. They're all used to this now, anyway, they've stopped arguing with her when they arrive at the precinct in the morning to find her there already. They've stopped asking her what time she came in.

They've stopped commenting on her red eyes, the dark smudges beneath.

But they haven't stopped trying to find him, won't until they get him back.

Her broken heart twists and torments her. The longer she stays under the hot water the more her mind screams that she's wasting time; she's failing him.

Kate's clinging to dreams where she can no longer feel him.

Castle would have found her by now.

* * *

**I think we have a tendency to be irrational in times like these. And if it took a few weeks to get him back, I could see even the strong Kate Beckett's brain starting to turn against her, to push blame onto herself - even when none exists.**


End file.
